In That Place
by DragonsandInk
Summary: There is a place that you can only see through a window. Nothing moves in that place from what you can see, and nothing lives there. Until you fall through the frame that is that window and become a part of it yourself. There are four people who have fallen through that frame and seen the real place. And this is what they truly think of it. From within the gallery you are born.
1. Brought Here

AN: Hey everybody! So, I didn't exactly get much feedback on Forgotten Here as I'd hoped, but I decided to continue with the one-shots anyways. I figure there are going to be four of them, including Forgotten Here and Brought Here, each one told from the viewpoint of one of the main characters in the timeline of the gallery. Forgotten Here, from Garry's view, is technically the third one in the set, even though I made it first. This is the first one in the set, as it sets up the gallery, and is in Weiss Guertena's point of view. I never really thought of him as the painting troll that some people think of him as, but as sort of a melancholy character. To create such beautiful and deep artwork, someone has to be more than just crazy, and thus this was born! I hope you enjoy, even if your ideas about Weiss are not the same as mine.

Disclaimer: Kouri owns Ib, I do not. I can only draw cartoon characters ;_;

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Weiss blinked in confusion at his surroundings. Not that they were strange, in fact, it was a rather plain hallway with green walls he found himself in, but what surprised him was that he had surroundings at _all_. That they were real and therefore he was _alive_. He had read too many books with the clichéd character wakes up and thinks they're dead moments and determined that if he were to die and _wake up_ then he would know he was alive. Weiss Guertena did not like to be cliché.

But even so, he was _very_ certain he was dead.

He had finished his largest painting ever only hours ago, sitting in his main room sipping rose-hip tea and watching the news lazily while waiting for the paint to dry. The painting had actually been commissioned and while that was rare he couldn't help but let himself get carried away once he had a paintbrush in hand. It wasn't what the church had requested at all and he was fairly nervous they wouldn't accept it, but he had, as with all his paintings, poured his heart and soul into its making. The making of a _Fabricated World_.

It was when his chest seized up that his cup slipped out of his hand. The hot liquid spilled over his pants and frock, which he'd forgotten to take off, but it went unheeded as his hands clutched at his chest and he gasped for air that didn't seem to come properly. He was very aware of the sudden cold that started at his fingertips and toes that spread even as he continued gasping, unable to feel a pulse anywhere in his body any longer. The worst part was the wait. Even as loss of motion gripped him, Weiss' eyes continued seeing the news reel and his mind kept repeating _heart attack-heart attack-heart attack._

He had died. Of that he was certain. He lived with no one and the people from the church weren't expected to pick up their painting for another three days. He had not been saved and therefore he died. And yet, he wasn't _dead_. He found his heart beating again, his smock unstained, and warmth through his body that could come from nothing other than being alive. And it confounded him so.

He began walking down the hallway, intent on solving this mystery. He'd always liked puzzles and this one was no excuse. He would say the odd situation made him fear for his life, but really it had just been saved, or something like it. As he examined the blank walls and plush carpet he wondered if perhaps he _was_ dead and death was really just a simulation of life. Would that make this heaven or hell then?

With some surprise, he realized the wall was no longer blank but had a painting hung on the right side. _His_ painting. He almost laughed out loud at the appropriateness of it. _Heartbeat_. This was Hell for certain.

Reaching out, he touched the unprotected canvas, only to jump backwards as the green line across it _moved_, accompanied by a loud echo of his own heart. In amazement he touched it again, to hear the loud base and spike of the line beat in tandem with his own heart. A wide grin split his face as he felt almost giddy. He didn't know how, but his exact vision for the painting had _come true_.

Feeling soothed by the sound and assurance that his heart was still beating, he took the painting off its hook and continued down the hallway, searching for another painting and nearly bursting in excitement for what it would do.

_The Juggler_. It took only a moment before the clown began to juggle expertly and Weiss was taken back to the day at the circus he had spent with his grandson. What a happy day. The clown smiled back at him, laughter accompanied by circus music floating out from the edges of the frame. Suddenly, this became one of his favorite paintings.

He continued, coming across other paintings he had made with his own hands. _Enlightenment_, _The Geometrical Fish_, _Marvelous Night_. He even found some of his statues, like the _Taste-Cleansing Tree_, and the sisters _Uh_ and _Ah_.

He looked over one of his favorites, The Red Lady. It wasn't really the painting he liked, but the satisfaction it brought to him whenever he looked at it. It had been this painting that drove unwanted suitors away from his home. It drove many unwanted people away, actually. Professing an undying love for a painted face with red eyes did that to people apparently.

He was reminiscing one such occasion when the painting began to move. He expected this, of course, so it did not surprise him. What _did _was when the Lady's hands came out of her painting and rested themselves on his shoulders, steadying the wobbling frame and allowing the woman to lean forward so their foreheads touched.

"Welcome home, Master."

The Lady explained that he was in his own gallery, where what had been mere vision when he painted became real. The Lady admitted her utter joy for him being there, snuggling the back of his neck from where she hung on his back. Weiss wouldn't leave her behind. Especially when she switched between calling him husband and master. She led him to what she called the supply closet, filled from corner to corner with painting supplies of all kinds.

He wanted to drop the Lady, hands itching to start painting and see his work come to life before his eyes. Unrestricted in any ideas he might have. Lady, anticipating his thoughts, giggled and told him to let her down and go ahead.

He propped her on a box, as she could only get out of her frame up to her waist, and set up an easel near her, chatting easily as he found a palette and some paints, excited to get started even though, realistically, he had only just finished _Fabricated World_ a few hours ago. He painted and painted, never feeling hungry and rarely feeling tired, falling asleep on the floor with Lady brushing her fingers softly through his hair when he did.

Eventually a trio of statues found them—Death to the Individual—and though they did all act eerily similar, moving in synch more often than not, their company was welcome. They took to rearranging the gallery, putting like paintings together in rooms and coming to him whenever they found a nice place for him to paint in, a new supply closet, or needed a door to get to a new part of the gallery.

Weiss played with his hands, painting, sculpting, writing, sometimes even stitching or gardening too, though he wasn't as good at either. Day and night didn't exist in the gallery, and neither did hunger or loneliness. Whenever he might feel bored of his meager company he would simply paint or sculpt some more. He ended up with probably fifty or so Ladies of all different colors and around the same number of Individuals to fill the halls and rooms. Red, the first Lady and his first "wife" although all the Ladies called him "husband" once asked why he never painted their bottoms. He found himself blushing but unabashedly answered, "Because if I did, I am certain I would not be able to keep myself from you."

He was answered by many giggles and kisses from the Ladies, trying to make him blush more. Weiss was happier than he could have ever imagined, having long forgotten the real world and happy to remain in his own forever. _Certainly_, he thought, _This must be Heaven_.

Until he remembered with a squeezing of his chest that he was not dead.

The Ladies didn't notice his sudden nervousness. How he began to almost neglect his rose garden he had painted up for himself and forgot to acknowledge some of the more obscure paintings of his so they wouldn't get lonely. Red noticed him blinking more often than usual and when he excused it as dry eyes she suggested he paint some eye drops for himself. It was embarrassing how many times it took him to make them correctly.

He didn't have much time left and he knew that, but he wondered what to do with that remaining time, what he could create that would live long and happily in his gallery of wonders. Thinking of his daughter that he'd left behind in the real world he smiled. A daughter. A child that was his and his alone. She could be anything he wanted her to be. Any age, any hair or eye color, any height—they didn't have to look anything alike and she would still be his beloved daughter.

But he couldn't leave her alone, oh no. The Individuals would do her bidding as they did for he, the Ladies would raise her, and his books would entertain and teach her. There was paper to draw with and his own many tea sets to play with. Yes…friends…he set to work making some dolls for his daughter. The most he regularly stitched were the dresses on the Individuals or the couch he'd made for resting a long while back, so it didn't come out perfectly, but they were good. Blue felt for the skin with cute rounded hands and feet, pretty pink, yellow, and green dresses, little black beady eyes that matched the color of the yarn hair, and upturned stitched mouths. Yes, these would make good friends for his little girl.

As he painted, he came up with ideas for names with the Ladies. He didn't tell them of his time limit, only that he wanted a daughter and that he wanted them to love her as mothers did. All the Ladies were excited. They were sisters to all the other artwork, not mothers or daughters and the idea of new family members always excited them. Blond hair, blue eyes, a cute blue scarf around her neck and a pretty green dress with lace.

"Samantha?"

"How about Rose or Rosetta? From that garden you like so much, Weiss?"

"No, her name has to be special."

"Susan?"

"Maybe something like Crystal or Ruby?"

Weiss wrinkled his nose in response to the suggestion as he tried to make his daughter's smile just right. He could feel his chest grow tighter but ignored it. _Just until I'm done. Just until I'm done with her_.

"What about something more traditional? Like Elizabeth or Margaret?

Weiss hummed slightly. He at least liked the sound of it better.

"She looks like a Mary to me."

Weiss paused—he was almost done anyways—and looked down at Red, who had been quietly watching him paint while listening to her sisters. Weiss leaned back to look at his girl for a moment and found himself putting the name to her face.

"Mary," he repeated and smiled. "I like that." It was simple, cute, and elegant. A long-lasting name. He hoped Mary would think the same.

He was just putting his name on the bottom corner, within the petal of one of the roses around the border, when his chest seized up again. He was more surprised than anything when he realized he wouldn't live to see his daughter come to life. The paint had to be dry for the image to come alive, and that would still be a few hours yet.

The Ladies were fawning over their soon to be daughter and so he excused himself from the room. His heart panged with something other than pain. He didn't want the gallery to know he died. To sadden all the Ladies and have the Individuals wander aimlessly around the halls. To have Mary's first sight and knowledge when she woke up to be her dead father who couldn't keep his heart beating long enough to tell her he loved her. But he was certain she'd know. Each brushstroke he'd made certainly conveyed the love he felt for her. And the Ladies would make sure she knew as well.

Weiss entered his inner gallery. He supposed this would be the best place to die if any.

Using a pencil, he fashioned a door and stepped into a hallway with a staircase leading down. He erased the door before heading down. This wasn't the first time he'd been here, though was certain it was the last time he'd use the door. The gallery, with its many occupants, became stifling at times, to the point where his tall rose bushes even were too close for comfort. The room at the bottom of the stairs held a single bed; large, comfortable, and always waiting for him.

He laid down, breathing heavily even though he'd expended little energy. Perhaps it would not be a heart attack this time but merely old age. His body never seemed to age, but his spirit could certainly feel the time he'd spent in the gallery. He wondered how many days or years he'd spent there, cheating death once and forgetting what his life had been.

It hadn't been a particularly happy or exciting life, filled with suitors after his family money, a daughter, son-in-law, and grandchild all created from a short and unsatisfying affair when he was much younger. His artwork never being fully appreciated by his peers or by the time it found itself in. He had been thoroughly unhappy with everything but the sensation of a paintbrush or pencil in hand, allowing him to create to no end.

Dying the first time and coming to the gallery had been the best thing to even happen to him. He would certainly consider his true life having been in the gallery. He was _happy_ there. Happier than he might have ever considered himself capable of.

His chest constricted painfully and he gasped at the familiarity of it. This time, as he died, thrashing uncontrollably against fate, his eyes welled with tears. He didn't _want_ to die! He wanted to see his daughter smile and make her some of his favorite rose-hip tea. He wanted to make his Ladies laugh and let Red run her gentle fingers through his grey hair. He wanted to live in his gallery _forever_. And as his limbs froze over and his eyes slowly turned unseeing, he got _exactly _what he wished for.


	2. Forgotten Here

**AN:** So! Ahem. Ib. One of my favorite games ever. Love the characters, love the ideas, enjoy the fanbase immensely, wish there was a little more appreciation for it. So, as true to my inability to stick with one fandom for more than two or three weeks, I've made a one shot! This is based off of the ending Forgotten Portrait (or maybe Together Forever, whichever one you prefer, I don't specify what happened to Mary and Ib) in a sort of different perspective. I've seen plenty of works where Ib continues on with her life, sort of remembering Garry, or remembering suddenly and lamenting over him, but I wonder: what happened to Garry? The answer, in my mind, is simple. _He became a painting_. And was forced to live in the gallery as such. If I get some positive feedback on this, then I might do a second one shot about Weiss Guertena. I do hope you enjoy this short piece as much as I enjoyed writing it

Disclaimer: I do not own Ib and all the game entails, all rights go to Kouri

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Time didn't seem to be a real thing in the gallery. There was no day and no night, no ticking of a clock, no tiredness that would come equally to the time one spent awake. There were no windows to see the sun rise or the moon cycle. The lights never changed to show when the gallery closed or opened, always staying at a dim glow somewhere between being on and off.

He supposed time didn't really matter anymore. What would the change of a day do for him anyways? When he was tired he would sleep until he was tired even while awake, while he was awake…well…he wasn't _always_ bored. Though there wasn't much he could do from where he was. Tied to a painting by black, thorny vines.

He had woken up there with little memory. And he felt even that amount was fading. Like bubbles that would burst as soon as he tried to catch them. It had felt like he had fallen and, when he looked up, the frame above him indeed looked like someone had crashed through it.

Little sprinkles of glass twinkled around him in the light they had. He had been wary of them before, careful not to cut himself on the pile, but now it was one of his few sources of entertainment. He'd push the little pile around to make pictures with the cracks and would try to stack some of the pieces together, careful not to cut his fingers on the sharp edges.

He couldn't move. The place that he had woken up in was the place he was _always_ in. The black vines spilled out of the frame above him, twining around his wrists, legs, chest, and neck and then spreading out across the floor, bright blue roses popping out from the bramble, as if to entice someone to come close to pick one only to get snagged and pulled in. The thorns didn't usually hurt, as if they didn't _want_ to hurt him, unless he tried to get away. If he did they would scrape and jab him, their length piercing his skin wherever they touched and dragging him back to his place under the frame. The first time he bled was strange. Since what came from his wounds was not blood, but a thick, red paint.

At first, he had been terrified, his memories still shining as much as they could, his life before being trapped by the barbs calling out to him to come back. He struggled every opportunity he had but could never get outside that expanse of vines, only managing to dye them a bright red color that did not fade to a darker hue as it dried. He still didn't stop. Not always anyways. Hoping that maybe one day the thorns would give up or he could overcome them and get away from the _Forgotten Portrait_. Hoping that maybe he could get out and find a way back to the little girl that had helped him survive a gallery of horrors.

He could remember his time in the gallery clearly, but he was always forgetting things. What was his favorite food? Why did his throat ache sometimes? Why was his hair purple? What had made his jacket so ragged? What were his parent's names? What kind of person was he?

There were lots of things worth remembering in his life, but he found them all slipping away one by one. And the worst thing was: after they were gone, he couldn't even remember that they were missing.

It wasn't all just lamenting over his loss of memories and his inability to move though. He _did_ have visitors. He couldn't say he particularly liked any of them at first, but they were visitors none-the-less and anything was better than sitting alone in a twist of vines playing with a small pile of glass.

The first visitor he had were the ladies. Unlike him, they could only get about halfway out of their paintings and dragged themselves across the ground with bleeding fingertips to get around. He had been curious at first, watching as one in green dragged herself forward, not even noticing him and going about her business, whatever it was. They didn't notice him very often, which he was thankful for. Memories of being chased by them would flicker in and out of existence in his head, making him go still and quiet whenever he started to hear their shuffling.

But now and again one would take notice of him and his blooming flowers and he'd see a maniac grin take over their usually somber expression. Their dragging pace would pick up exponentially and he often couldn't stop himself from shrieking at the sight with no way to get away. But before they could even come too close the bramble would spring to life, tearing at the women's hair and clothes until the entire painting was made of shreds and the only thing left of them was a beaten up frame entangled in the vines. He noticed that they didn't bleed like he did.

The ladies never talked, only growling when they saw him and their sisters trapped in the spikes or giving a small whimper at the edge of the circle, eyes drawing hazily between him and the blue flowers around him. He couldn't tell what they wanted exactly, but knew that to give one a rose was to end his life. If it could be considered a life anymore.

The other near human visitors who would come to see him were the mannequins. For some reason, these ones seemed smarter than the paintings, even though they had no discernable head to speak of, and always stayed outside of the vines reach. They couldn't speak with no lips, but they would come as close as they dared to him and would move their hands animatedly, as if they _were_ talking to him. Seeing as they were rather civil towards him, he would often just nod his head and pretend he could hear them. They seemed happy with that and he was relieved with their company.

He wasn't sure whether to call the heads visitors or not, since not once did they get truly close to him. He would see them peeking around corners at him every once and a while, usually looking normal but every once and a while with red streaks down their cheeks like they were crying blood. They were unsettling and he tried to just ignore them. They would leave as suddenly as they would appear, with no sound announcing the change in position and no actual visual of their movement. Of course, this just made them even less desirable guests in his hall, so he didn't mind the distance they kept at all.

The only other visitors he got to his painting were the dolls. At first he had been terrified of them. Some lingering memory shouting at him to get away from them as quickly as possible but being unable to from his place in the thorns. They smiled creepily at him—always smiling—and would stand on the outskirts of his area, cocking their heads back and forth and looking at him curiously. Sometimes he would hear something like a stamp hitting slamming down and would turn his head to see writing painted on the wall nearby, asking him to play or if he was going to be there forever. He didn't like talking to them, but they certainly did. The menagerie of words on the wall around him was a rainbow of colors.

Eventually, they made up a game with his vines. They would fly over into the danger zone, ducking between the creeping plants and swinging around thorns until they landed on his head, shoulders, and lap, where the vines would begrudgingly calm around him again. It seemed to be the prize, if one could make it across the expanse of spikes to him. Though that didn't stop a multitude of doll bodies from piling up in the bristle field.

One day, an idea struck him. The dolls were rolling around outside his thorn field, playing some form of tag when he leaned forward as far as he dared.

"Can you get me some paper and a pencil?"

The dolls stopped their playing, the smiles still there, staring at him for a moment before they all jumped up at once, excitedly flying off. He guessed they were going to do what he asked, though was confused about why they were so excited about it.

A bit later, four came back, each carrying something different. They tossed a sketchbook and three crayons to him over the black thorns where he caught them with a deftness he had forgotten he possessed. Blue, yellow, and red crayons with a blank book. The dolls soon joined him, finding positions on him so they could watch him draw.

He was surprised about the colors they chose, as they fit his purpose perfectly, though wasn't completely glad about the crayon choice. He would have preferred any type of pencil over crayons, but he couldn't really complain to the childlike things. They probably wouldn't understand anyways.

He had to write it down before he truly forgot. The reason why he was here. The reason why he would always be looking for a way out. The reason why he couldn't just continue sleeping.

Ib, the little girl who might still be out there in the gallery, who probably thought he was dead. Mary, the painting child who had killed him in one of the most innocent ways possible. And himself. The _Forgotten Portrait_ and why he wouldn't allow himself to forget.

_My name is Garry._


End file.
